


Mon Amour (My Love)

by graham_png



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal - Fandom, call me by your name - Fandom, cmbyn
Genre: CMBYN - Freeform, CMBYN AU, Call Me By Your Name AU, Call me by your name, First Kiss, First Love, First Meetings, Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Mild Kink, POV First Person, Praise Kink, Puberty, Secret Crush, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Suggestive Themes, Twink Will Graham, Voice Kink, Will Graham - Freeform, Will Loves Hannibal, Young Will Graham, a little too much, first time writing in POV so we'll see how this goes, forbidden relationship, implied sex, maniuplation, pinning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-01 06:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graham_png/pseuds/graham_png
Summary: A flowering 17-year-old boy, Will Graham, has spent the last three years living with his Aunt Viola and Uncle Louis in the countryside of France after his Louisiana-based parents came to a fateful end. Will is precocious, curious, and maturing with each growing day. In the summer of 1982, the boy meets Hannibal Lecter, his uncle's next choice of a colleague that will be studying with Louis for eight extended weeks at their eighteenth-century villa planted in Bauges, France, a grassland that extends along a wide mountain range. A relationship blossoms between the two foreigners, one that will make a riveting summer in 1982 unforgettable.(Disclaimer: This is widely based on Call Me By Your Name written by André Aciman and adapted into a film by Luca Guadagnino. I do not credit the original idea, even if this is to be vastly changed in characters and aspects of the plot)Written in first-person, which is something I have never tried before!





	1. Bitter Bonjour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will immediately decides he hates Hannibal Lecter.  
> Well, he wants to hate him.

**April 12, 1982,**

 

_Mon Amour_.

   I can remember the first time I heard the name roll off my lover's tongue. The memory was not recalled with malice or remorse regarding what happened during the summer of 1982, but of what could have happened. I never considered myself to be a courageous man, nor was I stepping up on every occasion to display my bravery when I was a boy.  That did not mean I held myself to a lower standard, for I had great respect towards myself for crawling out of my own skin. Weakness was always misinterpreted as a failure or a curse and I, undoubtedly different from the rest, always thought otherwise. That was until September neared and I came to the realization that my weakness had hindered me from doing all that I could have squeezed into what little time my lover and I had together. Much of it was wasted as I hesitantly debated taking the bait three times too many. That was my mistake and one I would live with. Miserably, hopelessly, but fondly live with.

   He first came in a taxi cab. The orange light on the vehicle's rear window shelf was like a beacon. I watched it change from orange to white when the back door opened just an inch, the figure inside stalling to exit as he, from the view of his shadow, was conversing with the taxi driver. Pleasantries were exchanged. The foreigner muttered the expected "au revoir" and the driver reiterated the goodbye in his husky tone, his throat obviously torn from a recent cigarette. I could smell it from where I stood to gaze in the open window, out on the balcony just outside my room. Cigarettes did not carry a pleasant scent but over the past year, I had grown accustomed to the stench to the point wherein it was considered familiar, if not welcomed. I picked up the habit three months before my seventeenth birthday, an occasion that passed a month before the new recruit's arrival. When the car hurriedly reversed in the dirt driveway there was the evidence hiding in the grass, the end still glowing as orange as the light in the taxi cab that indicated it was engaged. It was white now and ready for its next moment of duty, and my uncle's next recruit was standing in the yard with a suitcase and a briefcase and nothing more.

   Nothing more than that and his smug smile.

   I immediately decided that I didn't like him.

   "Allez, William!" It was my aunt, a woman who was short and thin and perpetually sweet. I obeyed the command and was thumping down the old wooden stairs, half-heartedly worried that the wood might snap beneath my heavy and hurried step. The villa was nearing three centuries old and the staircase looked as if it was a century old itself since its last replacement. "Hannibal is here!"

    _Hannibal_. It was an odd name, although I discovered it was just my aunt's punctuated French accent that made it sound so wildly foreign. Han-knee-ball. It was like a whine from Aunt Viola's lips. Irritatingly sweet, like she was dodding on a puppy. When my converse high-top sneaker hit the last step my posture faltered, if for just a moment, as I was met with that same smug grin. Was he always going to be so cocky? Perhaps, perhaps not. I still didn't like him.

   "Bonjour."

   "Bonjour," I replied. It tasted bitter in my mouth, like a snake biting its own tongue.

   "Hannibal Lecter," he said with an arm outstretched in an offering. I took it. "Its a pleasure to meet you."

   If the guest noticed my smile being pulled sharply and too slowly, he chose to not comment on it. I did not return an encouragement of my joy to have another stranger inhabiting my adopted home for eight weeks. My bedroom was to be invaded, my personal belongings moved for the sake of another, the feeling that  _I_  was invading, not the stranger, being ever present again. That was the third year I had stayed with my aunt and uncle since the unexpected departure of my mother and father, making it the third year I had to endure the ever-chafing presence of Uncle Louis' next brilliant prodigy. Though the last guest sent me a new guitar as a friendly Christmas gift, I was still bitter and still decidedly hated the man's very insides. I was forced to endure eight weeks of being what I considered an outcast. Never the three of us at the table, but four; never free to lounge where I would please; never able to relax without looking over my shoulder to feel a stare boring into my skin worse than the sunburn I would surely get if I stayed out in the sun too long, as I often did.

   How I managed to swim away from such bitter anger was easily pinpointed to one single fact, or person. Aunt Viola reminded me of the day my lover left in the gentlest tone I had heard her use, still to this day, with her soft and dainty hands clasping around my own as she pulled them to her face, lips plush and quaint as a kiss was placed to each sore knuckle.  _It'll pass_ , she muttered,  _but it doesn't have to hurt._

   The wheels of Hannibal Lecter's suitcase hit each step with a crack. I wondered why our guest had packed only a single suitcase for a two-month long stay but it was quite evident as I was left to carry it up an entire flight of stairs on my own, as my thin arms were not as muscular as some of the other teenage boys. Hannibal had, possibly, stuffed the thing until it was fit to burst. I huffed as I tossed the suitcase on to his - my - bed, shuffling through the closet to collect all the clothes I would be needing over the next two months. The bedroom was not entirely off limits but I certainly didn't want to intrude into  _my_ bedroom. Hannibal's bedroom. Anthony's bedroom before that. Alexandre before that. 

   When I heard approaching footsteps I shoved the sliding wooden door closed harder than originally intended. It slammed and the bedroom door shifted further open to reveal Hannibal Lecter, briefcase in tow and his horrid yellow tie loosened around his neck. "Thank you." I nodded in response. Hannibal lifted the suitcase from the mattress and placed it aside in the corner of the room. I bent to collect the button-down I had dropped and heard the springs in the mattress sing. New weight was added. Hannibal's weight. I peered at him with confusion and an equal amount of curiosity, an eyebrow arched as I stared at Hannibal's closed eyelids. He was older than the last two, or perhaps that was just his tiredness creasing the lines into his face. "Thanks," the man repeated.

   I took it as a cue, and the door clicked shut behind me.

 

* * *

 

   "What do you think of our new house guest?" Louis, my well-respected uncle, interrupted a relatively peaceful silence. Viola, myself, and Louis were enjoying a quiet breakfast. There was little to no conversation to behold, as each of us occupied ourselves with certain tasks. Louis read the morning paper; Viola skimmed a novel she took up as a distraction from her own boredom; I was sketching the form of the new visitor. I had only gotten a mere three glances of Hannibal since he arrived the previous afternoon. The man escaped to the upstairs bedroom shortly after he arrived with the reasoning that he was tired after a long journey. Louis and Viola had bid him goodnight and continued to dinner later on with me trudging around in silent steps and few opinions to be given. After they sat outside conversing about Louis' new archaeological find for a half hour, or what felt like an hour, I trudged upstairs with low hopes and my attitude plummeting faster than I could decipher  _why._ I stole a glance then, and then another before climbing into bed hours later. "Will?"

   I picked my head up, distracted gaze pulling to my uncle like a magnet to another. There was graphite smudged on my chin and some idly displayed on the bridge of my nose - the troubles of being a left-handed artist. Everything smudged on paper and smudged everywhere else. My hand was covered in the evidence of the task. "He's like the rest." I wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt. Being attractive didn't mean one had a decent personality. "Boring."

   "You'll find me interesting soon enough." All three heads peered away from one another. Hannibal stood, quite casually, in the doorway. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his slacks, his shirt unbuttoned to the point where there really was no use in having it on at all. Compared to yesterday's formal suit and swept back hair, he might not have been the same man. I might not have recognized him if I didn't remember the exact accent that punctuated his English. Not French, otherwise he would sound similar to Louis and Viola. It certainly wasn't French. "Bonjour, Louis, Viola." He paused, allowed his eyes to sweep past my young self now seated across from him. "Will."

   "Rest well?" Louis asked. He gripped the paper again and returned his gaze to it, though his attention remained on the guest.

   Hannibal nodded. "Yes. Thank you." An egg cracked as the curve of a spoon hit the shell. "You have a lovely home."

   Viola smiled, the one she reserved for me. Her home was her pride and her joy, but it was dangerous to compliment it, as it came with an entire history lesson that was mostly assumption and few facts. "Louis and I are quite proud of it. When Will moved in a few months ago there was so much to explore that he didn't know where to start first." The smile was directed at me, then, and I allowed myself to return it. If I were looking, I might have seen the one that played at Hannibal's lips, but I didn't want to meet his eye.

   "Ah," he hummed, "so I am left to assume that you are not, in fact, paternal family."

   Louis peered over his paper, round spectacles pulled down mid-nose. "What gave it away?" His tone hinted in a joking manner. "The eyes or the Louisiana accent?"

   Hannibal chuckled. The sound was raspy and still seemed smooth, like the honey that poured from the split honeycombs before us on a platter. I chose to swipe my middle finger through it just for a taste. The digit passed through my lips and my tongue collected the taste of pure, unabashed honey. Sweet, unbearably sweet, but natural in every possible way. I hummed and the sight must have caught Hannibal's interest, for he watched with utmost attention. "Louisiana?" He repeated. "I had guessed Texas. Then, one must consider, I have rarely travelled to the states."

   Not wanting to discuss any past relations or what I thought of Louisiana,  _does_   _Louisiana heat feel any different from here,_ or _have you ever been to New Orleans,_ decided to ignore the comment on my accent. I had enough trouble with it as it was. Being an American southerner in a country full of French and whatever Hannibal is was difficult enough without my family circle poking fun at it. Bella, my closest friend in France, was the only one strictly allowed to joke about my heritage. My one remaining thought was, simply, _fuck off_.

   "I will need to visit the bank this morning if that is alright with you."

   Louis nodded. "I can show you the route any time you'd like."

   "I can take him."

   Whatever possessed me to offer was a confirmation that I truly was not myself in that singular moment. I never got involved with the last two and promised myself that I wouldn't with this one. Hannibal would be gone in eight weeks and I would have my bedroom back and my comfortability. Then, my mind prompted, this was only showing him how to get to the bank. It was a twenty-minute bike ride - ten if we took the car. Nothing obligated me to even speak during the journey there. Hannibal seemed the type to enjoy silence, anyway, so what would be the problem? The napkin I was holding landed on my empty plate as I stood. Viola looked up at me expectantly, like she expected me to announce something grand, and Louis curiously peered over the edge of his morning paper. Hannibal, however, focused on peeling his hard-boiled egg. I was staring at him,  _glaring_ , with fists at my sides. Then, Hannibal slowly raised his gaze from his unfinished egg to the teenage boy looking like a nervous wreck before him. "Now?" He asked, and I grumbled, "yes, I have other things to do."

   "Not now," Louis interrupted. "I will be needing Hannibal shortly after breakfast. We mustn't wait too long to get him accommodated with the estate - particularly my office and the library."

   I had no desire to look foolish in front of him, nor my uncle and aunt. "After, then." Hannibal nodded, Louis shrugged, and Viola gave her dear and distracted smile. The metal pegs of my chair scraped against the concrete beneath as I pushed it out from under me, eager to leave, yet hesitant to go. My gaze flicked back to Hannibal out of what I would now consider habit - as if I was asking for his permission to leave the table. He did not seem inclined to acknowledge me but to finish peeling his hard-boiled egg. I huffed in agitation, whether from being ignored or Hannibal's complete obliviousness in its entirety. I looked back to Viola and felt my lips twitch, but even she was divulging in her novel.

   Without being noticed, I slipped into the gardens.

   I was left unbothered to seep into my thoughts, leg swinging from a branch of a tree, back pressed against it, eyes closed to soak in the sun. My uncle told me that blue-eyed people have difficulty looking into the sunlight, as did any, but the outside light itself was quicker to irritate a blue-eyed person, hence the prominent vitamin D lack. I never had trouble with it. I could bask in the sun from dusk 'til dawn and never feel any bother, aside from the sting of my skin when I itched at it. I remember France for its glorious sunlight and its beautiful countryside, the kind people who surrounded me, the friends I have and will always treasure deeply, and because that is where I met him.

   At the time I only laid on the cherry blossom tree's branch to sulk. I thought of the next eight weeks I would be forced to endure and, briefly, reminisced about the life I had in Louisiana. I never missed or longed for the states until the next house guest arrived; then, I would only think of that. I considered it an anchor, a safe haven full of imagined memories and fun times I never truly experienced. Sometimes I would swap my uncle and aunt's faces for my parents and try to imagine if I would have felt different in that moment if it was them and not my dear aunt and uncle. I never ceased to feel guilty after, for that was no way to repay them for what they sacrificed to have me here - to take me in. My father's brother was stupid and careless and I know, to this day, that I would have hated life if I went to live with him, more so than I did during the eight weeks a stranger lived in my bedroom and took all of my uncle's attention. I was thankful and they never doubted it, no matter how much I complained and sulked in that cherry tree.

   "Que fais-tu, Will?"  _(What are you doing, Will?)_

My aunt was carrying a basket full of blossoms. They were pink, withering, and pale. It was rare if they appeared in the middle of April, as they did that year, and they had begun to die. Viola was collecting them to press them between the pages of the books she had recently read - always poetry. She once told me that she believed the words written on the page were transferred to the flowers that were the same ones she used in her prized cherry blossom tea, the same tea she prepared for my uncle and me. I always believed it was the tea that kept me at bay (if not my aunt herself) and gave me the beauty that my lover so often praised. I love her dearly and she loved me thousand times more. A mother's love, even if she was not the one who birthed me. I knew these blossoms would be soaking into my tea in due time, but not of the poem it would carry.

   _‘There are things I miss that I shouldn’t, and things I don’t that I should. Sometimes we want what we couldn’t, sometimes we love who we could.’_

I don’tremember ever answering her, but I know she knew; for even then, I  _knew_.

 

* * *

 

    Tires scrapped against gravel, brakes squealing as I pressed just a tad too hard. Hannibal was breathless beside me, legs rightfully aching from the thirty-minute bike ride, palms clammy and gross in their own right, sweat making us feel like we bathed in grease. "Cars. I like cars." It was a pant punctuated with a deeper breath, more like a gasp, because he hadn't engaged in this much biking since he was a child.

   "Don't complain, old man. I took you down the scenic route."

   The ride was, in fact, breathtaking. I had seen it many times during my three years in the French countryside but it never failed to amaze. The greenery was bright and vibrant and ready with blossoming flowers and overtaking weeds. I took Hannibal past the abandoned church a mile from the villa, where the steeple had burned down and left it inhabitable. The stone was cracked and prepared to crumble at any given point when the wind blew too roughly in too strong of a gust. We were left to admire it from afar, though there were the courageous moments when I dared to venture a few feet inside. I never climbed to the second floor. The floorboards looked too worn to try it and I, quite frankly, fancied keeping both legs. Regardless, Hannibal suggested exploring and I shot the request down with the reasoning that we didn't have the time if Hannibal wanted to be back before lunch. Begrudged, perhaps, we continued on and neither of us shared a word. We admired the chirping birds that passed and the breeze that swept untamed grass as we, ourselves, swept by on bicycles. It wasn't until I came to a halt in a town square that Hannibal chose to speak again and I was finally less than irritated, though not amused.

   "Old man?" Hannibal laughed. It was terribly sweet and intoxicating, and, somehow, drawing a smile onto my impossible lips; the first of many. "I would argue that, but as I am panting like a dog, one would think I'm wrong."

    "The bank is right there." I pointed across the cobblestone street to a small, humble establishment. It was settled beside a local café, to which I strode. My sneakers kicked against the cobblestone, creating a  _click_  with each step taken - a pebble caught between the thin sole treads. I could feel it digging into my heel, pushing into the skin, threatening to make me wince. Tossing myself into one of the six metal lounge chairs provided with each corresponding table, "Hannibal!" I called, voice loud and clear through the rumble of a taxi cab's engine that drowned out the sound of a woman's laughter.

   The man stopped near the bank's door. He turned his head, inclined his chin, apparently surveying if this pesky interruption was worth the wait. "What is it?" Hannibal asked. His strides were lengthy, making it a mere four steps before he was standing tall above his guide. An eyebrow quirked as my leg was raise with hands cupped beneath my knee. "I have a rock in my shoe," I said. It was not directly asked, but heavily implied, and Hannibal dropped down to his knees.

   "Do your aunt and uncle let you explore on your own?" An attempt at small conversation. Hannibal set the heel of my converse on his knee, suspicions rising as he pecked at a small pebble, indeed, stuck in the sole of my shoe. It caught beneath the edge of his nail and with a pull of his finger, pulled free from the rubber. Hannibal flicked it back into the streets. "Or am I to be chaperoning you?"

   I didn't move my foot; rather, I sank further into the chair, the shoe climbing ever higher up Hannibal's thigh. I couldn't decide if I wanted to seduce or agitate him, but he would take it as he liked. That's how Hannibal was. "They don't care where I am, as long as I come back at one point or another."

   "Not what you are doing?"

   A look of incredulity etched its way into my generally soft features. The corner of my mouth pulled back and up, just a glint of teeth becoming visible with the action. "If I wanted to go out and get cosy with a girl, it wouldn't be any of their business." Hannibal caught the defence. "But no," I interjected the inward accusation, "they don't care. Louis and Viola trust me."

   My sneaker pushed against Hannibal's hip and the man was forced to keep himself from toppling down. It was not rough, its purpose to draw attention, and that it had done. Hannibal grasped my ankle with both hands, warm palms seeping heat through the sock that was scuffed with dirt that kicked up during our bike ride. Hannibal didn't seem bothered by it. "Why are you in France?" Hannibal asked. The inquiry was held in the air like an unwanted piece of bait. He could see the repulsion beneath my skin, crawling further and burrowing far down into the marrow of my bones. My foot returned to the cracked concrete slabs beneath me. He was smart enough to know the question wasn't welcomed, and so he didn't press. I gained an ounce of respect for him, which surely wasn't much at the time. "Get us a drink." I couldn't tell if it was a command or request, but I stood regardless. "Tell the kind lady I'll pay for them once I exchange my currency for euros." He smiled at me and it was vacant of that cockiness he presented when he first arrived. I assumed it was because my aunt and uncle were not around, not because he had some fondness held for me.

   He turned on his heel and left me standing there, partially hidden in the shade and partially forced to endure the sun's harsh rays of beaming sunlight. I sucked in a breath, that I remember, and wished for death.

   Instead of death, I received un café ( _a coffee_ ) and un chocolat chaud ( _a hot chocolate_ ). The lady looked at me sceptically when I told her of Hannibal's delay in paying but I smiled and she smiled back, giving me a nod. I hovered by the table I originally occupied as I waited, shifting my weight from one foot to another. I no longer had the pain pressing into my heel and it was then that I remembered I hadn't even said a polite thanks for Hannibal relieving me of it. I wish I had because when Hannibal returned he said nothing to me, but walked into the café and paid just as he said he would. Even then, he lingered. His hip was pressed into the counter, that charming smile wooing the lady who smiled at me. I hated him.

   I was no kinder when he did decide to saunter over to me. His coffee was still steaming so I knew it hadn't been long, but it felt like he was flirting for an hour. My stomach churned in remorse. "Did she give you her address?" I asked, unwilling to meet his eye as he sat in the chair beside me. I could feel his knee touching mine.

   Hannibal shook his head and I felt a flush of relief, then wanted to slap myself for it. "No." It was a simple answer, vacant of his usual amusement.

   I could not tell if I had offended him, but I chose to not fret over it. He would be gone in eight weeks; it wouldn't matter if he hated me. "I want to get a pack after this. You don't have to come," I offered. Part of me hoped he would.

   Hannibal drew his eyes up to me. Were they brown, green, or maroon? I couldn't tell. "Aren't you too young to smoke?"

   "No," I replied with a shake of my head, "I'm seventeen. I started buying them last year."

   "Just because the law allows you to buy them does not mean you _should_  be smoking cigarettes."

   I felt the urge to roll my eyes. "What are you trying to say?" I asked.

   He sipped his coffee and his eyes closed as if he was savouring the moment with a pleasant hum. "Nothing."

   I did roll my eyes then. "Do you want me to stop smoking?"

   "Yes."

   I would regret it later, that I surely knew. I had no obligation to partake in his wishes and respect what he asked of me. My habits did not correspond with his. I never smoked in the house, or near my parents, and would not smoke near him. He would never know if I went into the woods and smoked a cigarette; the smell would not carry that far and I could brush my teeth raw just so that he wouldn't know.

   And still, despite having no obligation to do as he asked, I never smoked again.


	2. Dante and Beatrice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shifting through the first week of Hannibal’s arrival, Will’s revelation, and the consequences of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of sex, nothing terribly explicit. Still, caution to those who are weary is always recommended.  
> Kudos and comments are welcomed, as always! Much love xx.

   "'Nine times already since my birth the heaven of light had almost revolved to the self-same point when my mind’s glorious lady first appeared to my eyes, she who was called by many Beatrice, ‘ _she who confers blessing’_ , by those who did not know what it meant to so naming her. She had already lived as long in this life as in her time the starry heaven had moved east the twelfth part of one degree so that she appeared to me almost at the start of her ninth year, and I saw her almost at the end of my ninth. She appeared dressed in noblest color, restrained and pure, in crimson, tied and adorned in the style that then suited her very tender age.

   At that moment I say truly that the vital spirit, that which lives in the most secret chamber of the heart began to tremble so violently that I felt it fiercely in the least pulsation, and, trembling, it uttered these words: ‘ _Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur michi_ : Behold a god more powerful than I, who, coming, will rule over me.’ At that moment the animal spirit, that which lives in the high chamber to which all the spirits of the senses carry their perceptions, began to wonder deeply at it, and, speaking especially to the spirit of sight, spoke these words: ‘ _Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra_ : Now your blessedness appears.’ At that moment the natural spirit, that which lives in the part where our food is delivered, began to weep, and weeping said these words: ‘ _Heu miser, quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps!:_  Oh misery, since I will often be troubled from now on!’

   From then on I say that Amor governed my soul, which was so soon wedded to him, and began to acquire over me such certainty and command, through the power my imagination gave him, that I was forced to carry out his wishes fully. He commanded me many times to discover whether I might catch sight of this most tender of angels, so that in my boyhood I many times went searching, and saw her be of such noble and praiseworthy manners, that certainly might be said of her those words of the poet Homer: ‘She did not seem to be the daughter of a mortal man, but of a god’. And though her image, that which was continual with me, was a device of Amor’s to govern me, it was nevertheless of so noble a virtue that it never allowed Amor to rule me without the loyal counsel of reason in all those things where such counsel was usefully heard.’"

   His speech was left uninterrupted, seemingly disregarded, but attentively listened to. I never had an interest in Dante, nor the act-less love affair Hannibal was reading; but, perhaps, it was the fact that Hannibal was telling me of it now that I found myself interested and wanting to hear of more, no matter how long it took him to translate Italian to English, a language I could understand. I was impressed, then, that Hannibal could read Italian and I supposed he understood more than Italian, French, and English. He had claimed himself as a multilingual polyglot, meaning he was capable of speaking, writing, and reading many languages. It was something he prides himself on and I understood, for it was most impressive, indeed. I asked him to teach me Italian while he was here and said, quite simply, "Sure."

   Dante appeared to be the start of our lessons. A Florence born poet, renowned for his inward affair, well-known for his writings of it.

   "Wasn't Dante married to someone else?" I asked. It was a plain interruption to the writings being told, but Hannibal did not seem to mind my interrupting. His reply was enthusiastic, perhaps because he now knew I was interested. "Yes," he said. I asked: "Then why would he write about another woman?"

   Hannibal was laying near the pool, which was made of stone and deep enough that it reached my chest. I was basking in it. I saw Hannibal's eye catch sight of me while he thought of the meaning of certain words, always coming to a correct conclusion. I worried he believed I did not care for the piece of literature, hence his suspicious glances. I did not know he only wanted to look at me. "Would you enjoy keeping a secret for the rest of your life, when you have the capability to let it be known, to be known to the one who it is written of?" I did not answer. My sunglasses fell to the tip of my nose and I busied myself fixing its position. Hannibal's head turned towards the blue sky. It was mid-morning, I think. "He was promised of marriage when he was twelve, even though he loved Beatrice from the age of nine. I believe he did not care if Gemma knew. She must have known he was infatuated with another woman - one more beautiful, more... ripe. It is difficult to ignore the obvious."

   "Clearly not," I said. I knew little of Dante and his life, or who was apart of it but did not desire to appear uneducated. Hannibal laughed, short and quiet, and I continue to pride myself on making him laugh at my stupidity. He did not tell me I was wrong, or that I was right, and I did ask if I correctly assumed. He continued reading. I learned more of Dante in that afternoon than I ever wanted to, but I reminisce about every moment still.

 

* * *

 

   "Are you busy?" He asked.

   I was in my room, quite content as I lay on my bed. I did not join Louis, Viola, and Hannibal for breakfast. I had a headache and therefore did not want to burden them with my complaints. I went out the night before, snuck down the creaking stairs, but did not make it far before I met Hannibal outside the door. He looked dishevelled. Unkept. Being my young and quick self, I presumed he went out to see the lady I had fantasized about, imagining what she said and did to Hannibal - if she was able to touch him wherever she liked. It was my first assumption, my first moment of jealousy. I hated the idea of this woman, and I hated him then. He asked me where I was going and I said nowhere, and he grabbed me by the wrist. Was he drunk? No, his words were quite plain and never slurred like a drunk's but slurred from his accent, which was usual. He grabbed my wrist to stop me. I did not. I pulled it free and retrieved my bicycle, and he did not stop it.

   "No," said I.

   "Let's go swimming."

   I forgot about the novel I was reading.  _Malèna,_ a short story composed by Luciano Vincenzoni, about a beautiful woman who captures the heart of a pubescent boy. It took a decent amount of haggling to convince the storekeeper to sell the book to me. In truth, he was not convinced. I stole the book, hid it beneath my coat, and walked out with it in secret. I was enjoying it as I battled my pounding head. I did not drink and I did not smoke. I contemplated touching Alana, making her make obscene sounds, pleasant and ringing in my ears, causing the leaves to rustle in the trees surrounding us, making her cry not out of sorrow, but because my hands and my mouth and my cock felt euphoric to her. I did not think of that now; I thought of how I wanted to do it out of remorse. Remorse, because Hannibal refused to do the same to me.I went to the huddle of trees on my own with no one to touch, not even myself.

   "Alright."

   There was no privacy between us, not really. He and I undressed with the door completely open, not a piece of wood to spare us the sight of the other. I saw his hips, then his backside as he turned, and his golden legs that I saw every passing day, desired to touch, to run my palms across, but never could. I do not know if he watched, but I wanted him to.

   He did not enter the pool at once, as he never did, but neither did I. It was a timid affair. I dipped my toe in, surmised if I wanted to enter inch by inch or plunge in one great leap. Hannibal was looking at my knees and the scrapes that adorned them from scratching grass and twigs. He was laying on a towel on his back, sunglasses hindering me from the sight of his eyes, but I knew that was where he was looking. I wanted him to kiss them, but he never did what I wanted. Hannibal rolled over in a quick instant and water splashed up to my neck. When he surfaced his sunglasses were gone and he asked me to search for them at the bottom of the pool. I slid down to the stone edge, sucked in a breath, and disappeared. My fingertips touched his ankle purely on accident and he did not react by scurrying away. I found the sunglasses a moment later and broke through the water with them sitting on the bridge of my nose. Hannibal looked at me, that smile reserved for me turning his lips up most beautifully, and was gone beneath the water once more.

   He did not take the sunglasses from me. No, he never did. Two days later he would return from town with a new pair, exactly the same as mine, as his.

 

* * *

 

   It was a week after his arrival that he touched my skin. It was a passing brush, nothing significant, but remembered all the same. He and I went out to town to exchange his Krones for euros and it was then that I discovered where he resided before arriving in France - Denmark. He never spoke of his home, but I knew it was not Denmark. There was much I did not know about him, and much I wanted to understand; information I wanted to hoard to myself. I was not allowed it and I did not know I could ask for it, and so I did not.

   The touch was given when we were inside the bank. I stood behind him as he conversed in French and watched his back. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and oddly colored pants, something between a pale red and pink. He had an eccentric fashion that my Aunt Viola appreciated. Nothing seemed dull to him. Even his trunks, the simplest of things, were such a bright yellow that I associated it with the sun. It made his skin look fascinating and so I never complained of their brightness, not that I wanted to. He was quite entitled to wear whatever he wanted, as was any. His shirt was unbuttoned, making the hair upon his chest peak from the opening. He was still young, not quite thirty, twenty-three years younger than my uncle and eleven years my senior. I think, perhaps, it was the fact that he was older and far more matured than I that I was so infatuated. Though, I believe quite fully that I would have loved him no matter the age between him and me. I did not think of it as love then, for love was so unusually foreign and considered ludicrous in my young and oblivious mind. I considered what I felt for him to be... a liking. I wanted to hate him, I always did at the beginning of days, but I was unable. No one could hate Hannibal. He touched my knuckle as he gave me the euro - a gift, he said, for coming along.

   After he exchanged his euros we ventured to the debilitated castle. He asked to explore it and I declined a second time, but he ventured alone this time. I followed. I would always follow no matter my fear. He touched the rock with such timid and gentle fingers that I was jealous of a stone. I touched the same spot, tried to find the warmth of his hands in it, but it was cold. He sat in the middle of the castle on the ground despite the dirt and the shards of rocks that poked into our thighs. He told me, then, that he had seven weeks left to the day. I felt a pang and I looked away to the crack in the stone so large that I could see the meadow that spread out behind us. He watched me and I felt myself wanting to cry. I couldn't, not there, while he was watching and there was a chance that he would hold me. I left through the split rock. It scraped against my back and I heard Hannibal say my name, but I passed through and went out to the meadow. The breeze stung my eyes. Not the breeze, not the sun beating down on me in her relentless beams. Because Hannibal was going to leave in seven weeks time.

   I did not speak to Hannibal the rest of that day, and I closed the door that separated our rooms that night, and I cried.

   He opened the door during the habitual rounds in which I heard his feet on the floor. I wouldn't have heard him enter if he did not say my name in a whisper. His hands touched my shoulders, my hair, his thumbs against my cheeks. I never opened my eyes. I don't know if he knew why I was crying, but I hoped he did.

   And he knew.   


End file.
